A Shot of Clarity - 1. Prologue

It’s not supposed to end like this.

There's supposed to be flowers, pretty dresses, pretty girls, sparkling rainbows, sweet sweet chocolates, glorious sunshine…

Instead, there’s black.

Endless, depressing black.

Black.

Behind him is a wall, glowing white. Scrawled across it is graffiti, permanent ink. He'd squint and look closer, but the words are barely legible, the product of a stoner in between bong hits.

This boy's not a stoner, though.

He avoids drugs like the plague.

Cutting his eyes to the left, he sees a porcelain bowl; sparkling white. Beside it stretches a handrail; glittering silver. And if he ever looks up, he'll see a eggshell ceiling...

He doesn't look up, though.

He looks straight ahead.

All he sees is black.

Black.

The surroundings are white and his hair is black.

Shocking, startling, frightening. Black. It's the first thing you're going to notice. There's a vast white sea, a bright-lit oblivion, and then there is pitch black. Head-turning black. Impossible-not-to-notice. Black.

His parents didn't notice, though.

He'd bought the home kit thirty-seven days ago, and they still hadn't bothered to notice. There were his two older brothers to fawn over, his one younger sister to adore. He was their third-eldest child, the only fair-haired one in the bunch... and they STILL hadn't taken any fucking notice.

His classmates had noticed, though.

What are you doing, you stupid fag?

Making a statement, Captain Emo?

Want a black eye to match, cocksucker?

White.

Now all he sees is white.

His hair is black, and his knuckles are white. His face is whiter again, but his eyes are still black. Black and blue and yellowing in parts, but still...

Black.

His pillowcase is red.

It sits atop his bed in the basement, providing support as he lies awake at the midnight hour. Tossing, turning, stressing; he's barely slept a wink in weeks. His mind never rests. He’ll soon be finding his rest, though.

In Peace.

Catching sight of a porcelain bowl, he sees a flash of his toilet at home. The sparkling bowl down which he flushes his pills. A swirling tide, a hidden secret.

Take your happy pills, he's occasionally reminded. Take your happy pills and be happy.

He hasn't tasted happiness in months.

The counselling hasn't worked, either. He'd been signed up seven days after coming out of the closet, but all he'd talked about in the past three weeks was the bitter weather and the way some ink blotches look like butterflies.

Such pretty things, butterflies.

Pink wings. Yellow wings. Blue wings…

Black.

A black coat, a white hand, a flash of silver...

Black.

Another flash of silver.

Black.

A flash of shiny, metallic silver.

It's like his own metallic safety blanket, kept hidden safely inside his blood-red pillowcase.

The safety switch is black.

He keeps it switched on, twenty-four seven. He tucks it deep inside his pillowcase, away from anybody’s reach, engaging the safety switch and keeping everybody safe.

Happy, even.

But not anymore.

Taking a deep breath and flashing a white-toothed smile, he feels the weight in his palm and lifts his gaze to look in the mirror.

Black.

Dropping the gaze to his palm again, he sees a shaft of silver light.

Silver.

It’s the colour of second place, the colour of second-best. The reward for the first of the losers.

He's not a loser anymore, though.

And with a single fluid movement, he decides he’s going to prove it. Taking the gun in both hands, he switches the safety mechanism to 'off', and begins to contemplate his next move.

Now nobody's safe.